Читать книгу Meadowsweet - Baroness Orczy - Страница 9

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When Aunt Caroline sailed indignantly out of the room Cousin Barnaby was not in the least disturbed. He may, perhaps, have been slightly vexed at her thus quitting him summarily when he had at least two more grievances to put before her — such as the noise which her guinea-fowls made in the early morning, a noise not unlike that of a blunt saw going through knotty wood, and which prevented his enjoying the quietude of early morning sleep.

“But,” he remarked placidly, after the door had closed upon Aunt Caroline, “I am not a man who often complains. I came here for peace — and all that I want is peace.”

Uncle Jasper was now once more deeply absorbed in his book and wholly unconscious of everything that went on around him. Barnaby Crabtree, though he greatly objected to self-absorption in anybody — seeing that people who were self-absorbed could not attend to him — knew that it was no use trying to drag Jasper’s absent mind away from his books.

The afternoon, too, had turned very close. There certainly was thunder in the air, for Barnaby had a slight headache and a disturbed stomach, and he always knew that there was thunder in the air when he had a disturbed stomach.

He proceeded now to untie his neckcloth, and from his pocket he took a large, many-coloured bandana handkerchief. He shook it out and then spread it over his head, and finally folded his hands in front of him.

Half an hour,” he murmured behind the folds of the handkerchief. “I will compose myself. I trust that Caroline will have the good sense not to come and disturb me again about those damnable kittens. Females are so unreasonable where increases in families are concerned.”

He went on muttering like this for quite a considerable time, but Uncle Jasper, of course, was quite unconscious of him and of his mutterings. He went on reading, and Cousin Barnaby sought refreshment in a little sleep.

The whole house became quite still, lulled into drowsiness by the closeness of the atmosphere. In the museum only Cousin Barnaby’s snores were heard or the droning of blue-bottles against the small window-panes, and at regular intervals the flutter of paper when Uncle Jasper turned over a leaf of his book.

Suddenly this quietude was disturbed. From the yard there came the sound of a man’s voice, raised angrily and insistently.

Cousin Barnaby awoke, and from behind his handkerchief he asked with great indignation:

“What in thunder is that?”

Then, as he received no reply to his peremptory question — which, by the way, he repeated at least twice — he tore the handkerchief from his face and shouted at the top of his voice:

“Jasper! Did you hear me ask what in thunder was that disturbing noise?”

“I heard nothing, Barnaby,” said Uncle Jasper.

“Nothing? Am I deaf, Jasper, or am I a begad idiot?”

“Ego cogito!” murmured Uncle Jasper, “I am wondering.”

But outside the voice had become even more loud and more peremptory. It was a man’s voice — seemingly a young man’s voice — and certainly it meant to make itself heard and its owner to be obeyed.

“Do I or do I not hear a most disturbing noise?” queried Cousin Barnaby triumphantly.

Uncle Jasper felt very worried and very nervous. He hated such interruptions, which, fortunately, were very rare at Old Manor Farm, and hated them still more when they came from the yard, for this generally meant that presently somebody would be knocking at the door of the museum, and probably would want to come in. It was therefore specially distressing at this moment to hear that tiresome voice outside saying peremptorily:

“I tell you, man, that I must speak with Mr. Hemingford at once!”

Fortunately Aunt Caroline, who had been administering the above-mentioned scolding to Topcoat, had lingered for awhile in the yard, examining the chickens and also the cart shed, and other places where untidiness might find a home, and a reproof be needed, which she might just as well administer since she was on the spot.

She it was now who came forward, and it was to her apparently that the voice of the unknown young man now addressed himself.

“I beg ten thousand pardons, ma’am,” it was heard to say agitatedly, “for this seeming intrusion, but a young girl’s life is in peril. I ran here to get immediate assistance, but your man seemed not to understand.”

“Good heavens!” Aunt Caroline was heard to exclaim. “What is it? Do come in, I beg, sir — just under the porch — yes, that’s it! The door is on the latch. Mr. Hemingford is there.”

And the next moment a young man stepped hurriedly into the room. Of course, Uncle Jasper dropped his book — he always did when he was disturbed— and equally, of course, Cousin Barnaby grunted with dissatisfaction.

Aunt Caroline had bustled in after the young man, administering a final scolding from the porch to Topcoat for having parleyed so long with a gentleman who evidently was in a great hurry.

The young man in the meanwhile had saluted Uncle Jasper and Barnaby Crabtree. Apparently he was very excited, for his good-looking face was flushed and he did not trouble to speak the polite words which the usages of society would demand of a stranger who was thus making intrusion in another gentleman’s house. At once he began talking volubly, and paying no attention to Mr. Crabtree, who had muttered audibly:

“This man is a begad fool!”

“Sir, Madam,” said the stranger excitedly, “I beg of you both to pardon my unwelcome appearance here. Let me tell you what happened: I was walking along the lane, having come up from Minster and being on my way to Ramsgate, and just as I was going past your gates a young girl darted right across the road in front of me. She was so quick and so nimble on her feet that I followed her movements with much interest. Suddenly, even before I realised what she was doing, she climbed like a cat up an old elm tree, and thence on to the sloping roof of a barn which abuts on this house. The roof is a thatched one, and its angle very acute. She may lose her footing any moment, and—”

Even as he spoke, and before the next word escaped his lips, there was a terrific crash, followed by the noise of broken glass, all of which appeared to proceed from the loft at the end of the museum. The young man’s face became pale with fright and Aunt Caroline gave one wild scream.

“The child!” and fell back, half fainting, against the back of the sofa, to which she clung now with one trembling hand, whilst with the other she picked up the corner of her apron and fanned herself with it vigorously.

Cousin Barnaby in the meanwhile had lost his balance; the impact of Aunt Caroline’s body against the sofa had caused him to roll off it, like a big indiarubber ball, on to the floor.

Everyone was dumbfounded, and even Uncle Jasper realised that there was something wrong, for he ran very quickly down the library steps and stopped short at the bottom, his pointed knees shaking one against the other.

After the crash there had been an ominous silence in the loft, and the young stranger, who was the first to regain his presence of mind, had, with a curt “Allow me!” made his way to the wooden stairs that led up to it, when a girl’s voice suddenly rang out, triumphant and clear:

“Got you! — got you! Shoo! — shoo! Go away! Mine! — mine! Got him! Go away!”

The next moment the door of the loft was thrown violently open, and a young girl’s form appeared for one second on the top of the rickety wooden steps. She was dressed in something white that fluttered round her legs owing to the draught from behind. Her head was bare, but a wealth of brown hair flew all around it in a tangled mass of waves and curls. She was looking at something above and behind her, and in her two hands clasped in front of her she seemed to be holding something which she was endeavouring to protect. Only for one instant did she stand there, white and wild, like a woodland fairy; the next she had striven to run down the steps, had missed her footing, and come tumbling down the rickety flight, landing on the floor with feet outstretched, hair dishevelled, one shoe flying halfway across the room, and a piece of her skirt remaining fastened to a protruding nail on the steps.

“God help us all!” shrieked Aunt Caroline; “the child has killed herself!”

As if to belie these words then and there, the young girl burst into a prolonged fit of laughter.

She laughed and laughed until every dark oak beam shook with the echo of that whole-hearted mirth.

“Bless all your hearts! I am not killed!” she said, as soon as she was able to speak, which was not for some time, as laughter took away her breath. “How scared you all look — and there’s Cousin Barnaby going to have a fit!”

And truly Cousin Barnaby did present a most pitiable spectacle. He had been scared out of his wits after being roused from placid slumbers, and his yellowish complexion was blotched with purple, whilst his pale-coloured eyes seemed to be starting out of his head.

“And I who came here for peace!” he said, as he groaned aloud, and looked with unmitigated disgust at the wild, dishevelled figure still sitting with outstretched legs and shoeless feet on the floor.

“The fright you gave us, Boadicea!” sighed Aunt Caroline, who had not yet recovered her evenness of mind.

“The bumps I gave myself!” retorted the young girl, still laughing. “By George, but I do feel sore!”

She picked herself up rather slowly, and holding one hand to her hip, which, indeed, must have ached considerably. She looked a little wide-eyed and pale, though she would not admit that she was hurt, and in the other hand she still held against her breast that which she seemed desirous to protect.

As the stranger stood back toward the door, she had not yet seen him; but he was watching her with considerable amusement, for, indeed, she looked a wild figure of a girl with her brown hair flying in all directions, her skirt torn, and her stockings full of holes.

Indeed, now that she was standing up, she presented rather a woebegone appearance. Her face was scratched and smeared with black and her hands were covered with grey dust.

“But where have you been?” exclaimed Aunt Caroline, with as much sternness as she could command.

“I’ll tell you,” began the girl, talking excitedly and volubly, and turning deliberately to Uncle Jasper. “You remember, Uncle, that short-eared owl you and I saw on the top of Farmer Upchin’s barn an evening or two ago?”

“Yes, yes!” said Uncle Jasper, whose wrinkled, birdlike face had lighted up at mention of the memorable event. “Yes, yes! The Strix brachyotus, or short-eared owl.”

“Well,” she continued eagerly, “now I knew there must be a nest of them somewhere. I thought you would like the eggs.”

“Yes, yes!”

“So I got them; but, by George, I did have a tear round!”

“A tear round!” groaned Cousin Barnaby. “Look at her stockings!”

“My dear child!” exclaimed Aunt Caroline, horrified. .

But Miss Boadicea, wholly unconcerned, looked down calmly on her shapely feet and ankles encased in coarse cotton stockings, through which her great toe peeped out unblushingly.

“Ever seen a great toe before, Cousin Barnaby?” she said, as she suddenly held up her foot right under Mr. Crabtree’s nose.

“Don’t do that!” he shouted, for indeed he was very furious, and we must admit that he had every cause to be exceedingly vexed, since he had come to Old Manor Farm for peace, and this June afternoon had been the scene of quite a number of disturbances.

“But the eggs, child?” said Uncle Jasper, with quite a show of eagerness and impatience; “have you got the eggs?”

“Hm — hm!” nodded Boadicea in response. “I climbed on to Upchin’s barn after Mother Owl. She flew off. I scrambled down and then on to the poplars after her. But, Uncle Jasper, where do you think the nest was?”

“Well, my dear?”

“In our loft — just under the thatch by the skylight! Oh, I had a scramble for it, I can tell you! The thatch was so slippery after all this dry weather. I slid now up, now down. Scratched my knees, too! I tell you, Mother Owl was furious. She knew I was after her nest. But I got it at last — when, bang! I slid down again — this time on to the skylight, and through I went with a crash!”

She was quite breathless, for she had talked very fast, undisturbed by Cousin Barnaby’s groans of disgust and Aunt Caroline’s exclamations of horror. Now she paused a moment, and her face assumed an expression of pride and of triumph.

“But I’ve got the eggs for you, Uncle Jasper,” she said.

And she looked down upon the precious thing which she was still holding to her breast. Suddenly as she looked the expression of triumph fled from her face, a look of dismay spread all over it.

“Yes, child, the eggs?” said Uncle Jasper excitedly.

A tangled bundle of brickdust and mortar, of twigs and dried grass, together with fragments of something white and a yellowish liquid, fell in a heap on the floor.

“They are smashed!” she exclaimed, as her eyes filled with tears and her arm dropped down to her side.

“Scrambled eggs!” remarked Cousin Barnaby placidly.

He really did enjoy her disappointment.

“Smashed?” cried Uncle Jasper in a piping treble, for he was truly horrified at the awful calamity; “no, no, child, not smashed?”

And while Boadicea nodded ruefully he was down on his knees turning over the remains of the destroyed nest, trying to find some fragment at least large enough to preserve.

“No, not smashed,” remarked Cousin Barnaby, who knew how to be sarcastic; “eggs are usually much improved by being hurled six feet through a skylight.”

“I am so sorry, Uncle!” murmured Boadicea.

She looked so conscience-stricken and with it all so quaint and funny in her torn skirt and stockings that the young stranger — who hitherto had politely kept in the background — betrayed his presence now by a loud and genuine outburst of laughter.

Boadicea quickly looked round, and, seeing him thus laughing whilst trying to regain his composure under her stern eye, she gazed on him for awhile in mute astonishment. Then she said curtly:

“Who is he?”

At her words everyone seemed suddenly to become aware of the stranger. Aunt Caroline, very flustered, hastily smoothed down her apron and put her hands to her head to see if her cap were on straight.

“Indeed, child,” she said, “your wild mischief makes us forget our manners.”

She turned to the young man, and bobbed him an old-fashioned curtsey.

“Sir? . . .” she said, half interrogatively.

“Lieutenant Carrington, of H. M. S. Dolphin” he replied, standing very upright and giving Aunt Caroline a real naval salute, “at your service, Madam!”

“Lieutenant Carrington!” exclaimed Aunt Caroline. “Not Mamie Carrington’s son? Mamie who was Mary Janet Culverston?”

“My dear mother,” said the young man.

“Mamie’s son! — Mamie’s son!” reiterated Aunt Caroline, as with scant ceremony she placed her podgy hands on the young lieutenant’s shoulders and drew him down until she could plant a kiss on both his cheeks. “Right welcome you are, sir, for your dear mother’s sake! She’ll have told you about me, I know. Caroline Pettigrew I was before I married Jasper Hemingford. Mamie’s son, to be sure! Why, you were a mere lad when I saw you last at Crackmansthorpe. My! how you have grown since then!

“And this is Mr. Hemingford,” she continued with eager volubility, and waved one hand toward Uncle Jasper and the other toward the young man. “Lieutenant Carrington, Jasper, of H. M. S. Dolphin; my friend Mamie Carrington’s son. You remember her; she was one of my bridesmaids. And you remember Mr. Hemingford, I am sure, Lieutenant Carrington.”

“Jack you must call me, Mrs. Hemingford, please!” said he.

“Then Jack it shall be!” rejoined she, blushing with pleasure. “You remember Uncle Jasper, don’t you?”

“Remember Uncle Jasper? Why, of course I do!”

And he shook Uncle Jasper cordially and very vigorously by the hand, whilst Uncle Jasper, rather absent, and certainly vague as to who the young man was and who was Mamie Carrington, murmured pleasing “How de do’s?” and declared how well he remembered.

“By gad!” said Lieutenant Carrington gaily, “I remember this museum perfectly now. Though I only was brought here once in my nurse’s arms, I thought it then the most wonderful spot on earth — in fact, it was my idea of heaven in those days.”

“It is my idea of a rubbish heap now,” grunted Cousin Barnaby, who thought it was fully time someone paid attention to himself.

“And this,” said Aunt Caroline, politely turning toward him, “is our cousin, Barnaby Crabtree, who is paying us a short visit.”

“Your servant, sir!” said the lieutenant.

“And now,” continued Aunt Caroline, “I hope that you find yourself quite at home, sir.”

“You are too kind, Mrs. Hemingford,” said he.

“I don’t know where you lodge, sir — I mean Jack,” said she.

“On board the Dolphin, Madam.”

“At any rate, then, I hope that you will give us the pleasure of sharing our homely supper with us tonight.”

“I’ll be greatly honoured, Mrs. Hemingford,” said he, making her an elegant bow.

“Then you’ll excuse me, sir — I mean Jack—I’ll tell my niece Lady Jeffreys that you are here.”

She had made this remark quite casually, having for the moment forgotten that Boadicea had been absent all the day, and knew nothing of her sister’s arrival; and she was calmly sailing toward the door when the young girl was after her like a whirlwind.

“Olive!” she cried, “Olive here, Aunt? Where is she? When did she come? Why didn’t you tell me she was here? Where is she? I’ll go tell her!” And she made impetuously for the door. But Aunt Caroline restrained her, putting on her most stern and most commanding manner.

“No, no, child; not just now,” she said. “Olive is dressing, I think, and you know that she always hated being disturbed whilst she was so engaged. And I should hate her to see you in this state, too; she looks so lovely herself — and you, child, you look a perfect savage.”

“I have always maintained that she is a begad savage,” grunted Cousin Barnaby, who had no love for little Boadicea.

The child hung her head now, looking very penitent. Her sister Olive was the great love of her lonely life. She had a passionate admiration for the dainty and exquisite sister, who had gone out of her life, even at the time that she herself was emerging out of girlhood. Just for the moment she felt ashamed of her torn clothes and ragged stockings, and would have liked to hide herself somewhere, so that Olive should not see her until she was more tidy.

“Wait a moment here,” said Aunt Caroline, “and I’ll see where Olive is. If she is in her room dressing, as I think she may be, you can slip quietly upstairs and smooth your hair and change your dress, so that you may look your best when she first sees you. Don’t cry now, that’s silly!” she added in a very low whisper, as she saw that Boadicea was on the verge of tears. “Lieutenant Carrington is looking at you.”

“Caroline,” came in reproachful accents from Cousin Barnaby, “are you forgetting that this is the hour for my glass of bitters? I shall have no appetite for supper if you neglect me like this. Not that I ever complain; but really I don’t see why the presence of a stranger should thus make you forget your most elementary duties to me.”

“Oh, come along, then, Cousin Barnaby!” said Aunt Caroline with some impatience. “I had forgotten you, it’s true; but Susan will have put the bitters on the parlour table. Come along, then — and you, child, wait just five minutes, and then make no noise as you slip upstairs.”

After which Aunt Caroline, with a final “I pray you to excuse me, sir — I mean Jack,” went out of the room followed by Cousin Barnaby.